


No Better Friend, No Worse Enemy

by Logos_Faber



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:10:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Logos_Faber/pseuds/Logos_Faber
Summary: John Watson used to be 008.





	1. Chapter 1

No Better Friend, No Worse Enemy

Hello! 

In my version of events 007 shot 006 at the beginning of Skyfall.  
The title comes from something an American Marine I know likes to say about his military brethren.

Enjoy.

The former 002 accompanied the former 006 on the hospital visit. 008 had recovered enough to let his friends outside of Mi6 know he was not dead. The bullet dug out of his shoulder had come from a British gun. 008 needed to talk to trusted outsiders before he contacted the Office. 

008 pressed the button on the bed’s remote and the motor whirled as his prone body was leveled into an upright position.

008 did not like being flat on his back in the presence of dangerous men; not even friends and former lovers.

006 sat on the chair beside the bed, 002 lingered by the door unsure of his welcome.

“Looking good dead man,” 006 said grinning.

“I could say the same,” 008 replied with a small smile for 002. 

002 looked like a model dressed as a powerful business man with his bespoke grey suit and perfectly styled silver white hair.

008 missed 002 shoulder length dark locks. Missed the way they felt on his skin when 002 trailed kissed from his collarbone to his cock. 

008’s eye lingered on 002 mouth. His eyes flicked back to 006.

“What about Ramsey?” 008 asked. “007 left him bleeding out on the floor. I did what I could but-”

008 cleared his painfully dry throat and 006 poured him ice water. 008 saw 006 add a powder he would not taste. He pretended to drink it.

“Ramsey lost a kidney but he’ll live,” 002 assured 008. “He is looking at early retirement.”

002 perched on the edge of the hospital bed and laced the fingers of his left hand through the fingers not holding the ice water.

The taller older man glanced from 006 to the ice water to 008.

002 smile was familiar - the kiss goodbye when he could not stay after sex but wished he could. 

008 drank half the water. At least it would not hurt. At least he was not be alone.

“What the fuck happened?” 006 asked.

“It was a hybrid honey pot. Moneypenny was the face.”

“Moneypenny is dark but her farsi is shite,” 006 said.

“It is better than nothing. You know 007’s most exotic tongue is Russian,” 002 sneered disdainfully.

“You deserved to get shot for putting 007 and Moneypenny together on your team,” 006 said.

“It wasn’t my OP,” 008 corrected. “007 was point. Ramsey was his wingman. I was just a local extra called in at the last minute.”

“Ramsey is a specialist,” 006 pressed. He was anal about following procedures. A necessary habit for an explosives expert. “What the hell was Ramsey doing in the field?”

“Central Asia is your turf!” protested 002 indignantly. He was still territorial about the strangest things. “You should have been point or oversight!”

“M was oversight. I was guarding the back door.”

“The mission was practically designed to fail,” 006 concluded shaking his head. “FUBAR from the start...Was it personal?”

Despite the company he kept, 008 liked to stay out of office politics. However there was no denying the obvious. “Maybe,” 008 hedged.

“Maybe you should take a hint. Mummy doesn’t like you any more,” 002 said in a sing song voice that grated on 008’s nerves. 

“Four inches lower - there would be a hole in your heart the size of a peach pit. You are lucky to still have your arm attached,” 006 said sternly. “It’s time for you to retire my friend.”

“Are you giving me a choice?” 008 asked sleepily. It did not hurt what ever 006 gave him. 

“Your are to stubborn and stupid to be trusted with choices,” 002 said fondly. He kissed 008 forehead. “When you wake up, you won’t remember them and they won’t remember you.”

“Don’t wipe slate...Clean. Those...our people. Don’t hurt, to get her,” 008 slurred as darkness clouded the edges of his vision. He was floating, weightless and numb inside his own body. 

“When I strike mummy down, why should I spare her good little children?” 002 asked tilting his head like a curious bird.

“Don’t begrudge the innocent their ignorance,” 008 forced out. “Please. Promise. Me…,” 008 trailed off sliding into complete unconsciousness.

006 = Alec Trevelyan  
002 = Raoul Silva, Tiago Rodriguez,  
008 = William Timothy, Dr. Jonathan Hamish Watson


	2. Chapter 2

Fear churned in Mycroft’s stomach like indigestion as his middle brother strolled off with Dr. John Hamish Watson, both of them quietly giggling like school boys during church service.

In films professional assassins were suave, physically attractive, and fashionably dressed. 

In Mycroft Holmes’ personal experience, more often than not, professional serial killers looked perfectly ordinary, even harmless: the proverbial sheep in wolf’s clothing.

No one would ever suspect the unassuming Dr. John H. Watson, the jumper wearing tag a long, of being a sharp tools from the government’s locked black box.

However Mycroft Holmes knew a dog of war when he saw one. Behind his unassuming facade Dr. Watson was joyously howling at the moon bathed in the blood of his enemies.

Mycroft resolved to see Sherlock first thing the next morning to appraise him of Dr. Watson’s true nature.

UNFORTUNATELY Sherlock remained, as ever, uninterested in observations he had not made for himself. 

“I fail to see why you are so concerned, Mycroft. You should be delighted I am cohabitating with a medical professional with military training. He is so ideal I’m surprised he’s not one of yours.”

“John Watson is not the product of the British military apparatus. We do not train ordinary Army doctors to use a hand gun like a sniper rifle.”

“The shot was not that noteworthy, you are making much of nothing. As usual.”

“154 meters, elevated moving target, through two panes of glass, at night, with a cross wind from-”

“So he got chummy with an SAS operative and learned a few tricks of the trade. What of it? Isn’t that what you Tory elitist are always urging the ignorant to do? Better themselves?”

“What of it? There is nothing about it in his records! Officially, unofficially, anecdotally there is nothing that even hints he was trained in asymmetric warfare!”

“Don’t tell me, some your clandestine service personnel are capable of keeping a secret. That is a happy revelation considering poor little Egbert's passionate diatribe last Easter.”

“Leave Mi6 out this!”

“You claim to be concerned my flatmate received unauthorized paramilitary schooling but don’t want to discuss the most likely source leaking that information? Mycroft, I don’t think you are taking this possible breach of national security seriously. For shame.”

“You are enjoying this aren't you.”

“No, I am annoyed my brother thinks the only person in London who would voluntarily split rent with me is a potential terrorist.”

“Sherlock -”

“My self esteem is crushed. I may require therapy to recover from this debilitating emotional trauma. Kindly show yourself out, I want to be alone. In the dark. With my sadness.”

“I would not have committed you to a psychiatric hospital if you had not been hallucinating! How was I to know you switched from cocaine to LSD out of boredom?”

“If you minded your own business I would never have had to discuss my abandonment issues with Mummy while dressed in a tutu and you’d know who taught John to kill so well.”

“Has it ever occured Dr. Watson may be a clear and present danger to your continued health and longevity?

“Has it ever occurred to you to let me be the judge of what is or is not an acceptable risk? Has it ever occurred to you I have two parents and you are not one of them?”

“Sherlock do you even know what he does for a living?”

“He works for some feel good NGO. Care International or Hope Without Borders -”

“Mission of Mercy.”

“John vaccinates people who need birth control, vocational training and political freedom - but why solve problems when you can dodge taxes by treating the symptom?”

“I refuse to discuss the generational exploitation of the poor by tax haven charities that perpetuate poverty with a trust fund baby who indirectly benefit from said exploitation!”

“Economic globalization without centralized governance is a recipe for war, mass population migration, and economic exploitation! Why do you protect a broken system instead of-”

“It is all I can do to keep the English-speaking world from imploding!”

“Perhaps if you spent as much time crafting policy as you do eating cake -”

“If you want to take a crack at creating a global government, Sherlock, be my guest.” 

“You shall not lure me in with the promise of a genuine challenge then saddle me with a tedious bureaucracy while you inflate your vanity with two more doctorates!”

“I find your attempts to turn child’s play into a vocation laughable. The art of deduction indeed. Did you lose a bet with Egbert I am unaware of?” 

“You are jealous that I do as I please with no remorse or repercussions. I know you would rather be a tenor with the Royal Opera than a White Hall stuff shirt -”

“Hardly.”

“Perhaps I would involve myself in your hopeless quagmire, let you take a sabbatical year, if you gave me free rein to purge -”

“Sherlock we are not starting another world war for your personal amusement!”

“Grandfather built the atom bomb and everyone applauds his holy name! Think what I could accomplish if you gave me that latitude!”

“Chemical and biological weapon were outlawed for a damn good reason and you know it!”

“War jump starts scientific discovery - space flight, teflon, antibiotics, microwaves - with a few test subjects I could -”

“No you can NOT perform experiments on Egbert’s cadre of double -oh assassins! How many times must I tell you the government does not WANT a super soldier program!”

“What if I recruit volunteers - a few desposibl ”

“You’ve recruited Watson to be the first enforcer of your new criminal organization so help me I’ll-”

“I promised not to start another syndicate when you released me from the nut house and you know I honor the few promises I make to the best of my ability.”

“See that you stay on the right side of the law. We Holmes have come a long way on the road to respectability since our ancestors made the family fortune stealing Spanish gold as privateers. There is no need to start regressing at this late date.”

“Says the man who let Cameron and Bush start another Christian Crusade in the Holy Land.”

“For the last time I do not run the world!”

“I know you don’t but you want to. So get on with it and stop mucking around making everyone miserable and dead!”

“Am I interrupting?” Dr. John Watson asked coming in the front door.

“No.”

“Yes! Thank the imaginary sky daddy! There's an intruder in our home," Sherlock pointed at Mycroft. "Use your gun. Make him leave!”

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you-”

“No tea for Mycroft. He has said his peace and now he is leaving. Mycroft. Get out.”

“You may not credit my claim John, but Sherlock was taught manners by loving parents in a stable home environment.”

“I was held hostage in a desolate hobbit hole deep in the wilderness by kindly troglodytes -”

“The Cotswolds may not be cosmopolitan as London, but it hardly a wilderness!”

“Then shipped off to the headquarters of a queen worshiping cult for indoctrination. I barely escaped with my wits intact. It is small wonder I turned to drugs in my desperation -”

“Stop telling people Eton and Oxford promote the idolatrous worship of Queen Elizabeth!”

“Says the man with three pictures of the queen in his home, two in his office and one in his wallet.”

“Do you really have a picture of the Queen of England in your wallet?”

Mycroft ignored the question. Putting on his coat Mycroft said “This discussion is not tabled Sherlock.”

“Goody!" Sherlock said clapping his hands. "There's nothing I like better falling asleep while listening to your pronouncements. If you could come round at half past eleven, my insomnia-” But Mycroft slammed the front door before Sherlock could finish.


	3. Chapter 3

He was not getting away from John.

The rush of air scrubbed his head, making his eyes tear, his clothes flap against his skin painfully but John Watson was not scared as he jumped from a moving car onto a moving train like a cowboy robbing a stagecoach. 

John swung on the side ladder like a kite on a string before he could pull himself up. John was not angry with the man he tackled on top of the moving train and then choked from behind. 

John crushed the breath from his struggling victim in the vice grip between forearm and bicep of his right arm. He took hammering elbow jabs to the ribs, turned them round to avoid a heel back kicking his shin, crushing his toes. John picked the man’s pockets with his free left hand.

Wallet. Keys. Scraps of paper. Keycard. Coins. Necklace. Lighter. Thumb drive - John stuffed by the handfuls down his own pants for safe keeping. Things fell out of pockets but -

His boxer briefs had elastic around the thigh designed to keep things from falling out. Water and fire proof -

Q had joked Wild Bill was the only agent he could trust to keep things in his pants.

\- getting in deep with this Vesper. You don’t know her angle! I trained you smarter than this! The rules protect you from more than just diseases. Damit! Listen to me James! Alex wouldn’t want -

John’s shoulder exploded in a volcano of pain that whited out his vision and jelly filled his limbs. 

He fell. 

Everything was rushed up like a magical forest growing to the sky. The train was on a bridge crossing the endless blue of heaven. John was going down, down, down to Hell -

He woke up to the sound of his own voice shouting in terror. John lay trembling and panting. 

John willed his body to feel the solid bed under his body, the sheets bunched in his fist not the weightlessness of free fall.

The clinician in John ran down a mental checklist list of symptoms.

Cyclic dream? Yes but from some half forgotten action movie, not the ambush in Afghanistan that cut his military career short. 

Hyper vigilance? Yes but John lived in central London. Last week he had to shoot a serial killer cab driver to save his clever fool flatmate. 

Insomnia? Yes, but much improved since moving in with Sherlock who played soothing sonatas on the violin by the light of the street lamps.

Drinking? Drugs? Tempting, but no. Not with the specter of father and Harry’s self destruction haunting John’s memories.

Emotional numbness? Promiscuity? John was to British to emote and he vowed to slag around when he could bring dates home without wondering if there were cadavers in the kitchen.

PTSD or early mid-life crisis?

It was not worth worrying about first thing in the morning. John got out of bed, made the bed military precision and started his exercise routine. 

Like a prison inmate John mostly used his body weight to build his muscle density. He had a pull up bar bolted into the beams of the ceiling and a jump rope for cardio.

Forty five minutes latter, sweaty but relaxed John padded down stairs in his boxers with clean clothes and a towel over his shoulder. John found Sherlock stretched out on the sofa holding his violin like a stone knight atop his tomb holding his sword.

“Oi! Charlemagne!” John ran a proprietary hand from the top of sherlock’s bare feet atop the armrest to his knee passing. “Case or no case you’re eating today mate...they’ll revoke my medical license if you starve on my watch.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise John had learned could mean everything from sounds good to like hell I will.

John had a shave and a shower. Put on fresh boxers and came out of the loo damp and hungry for breakfast to find Sherlock fighting for his life. A man in a caftan and a face covering head scarf had Sherlock's body pinned to the kitchen table with a sword to his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had attended the best schools in Britain; - if briefly - traveled all over the world - occasionally to hide from Mycroft - and he had solved cases for Mycroft, the police and private clients for years before John entered his life. 

However Sherlock could not deny that having John about made his life easier, and more importantly - interesting. 

John pulled the man back from Sherlock, pivoted and thrust him forward. The swordsman tumbled over the back of the couch. The attacker landed with his head and shoulders on the floor and his hips smashing the wooden coffee table. The sword slide across the floor beneath the leather armchair.

Wasting no time, John jumped over the couch to slam into the man in the head scarf as he struggled to his feet. The two men slammed into the ground, with Sherlock’s attacker taking the brunt of the impact. 

They rolled on the floor briefly trading punches and grappling. Then the man in the head scarf reached out grabbed the sword discarded beneath the leather chair and John was forced to roll away to avoid being stabbed. On their feet, the two men circled the remains of the coffee table, stalking each other.

“Who sent you?” John demanded.

“Bhagavaan meree taraph hai!” the man declared lunging at John.

John pivoted to the side, grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the sword and pulled his attacker forward - off balance - into a two swift knee strikes into his kidneys and a head butt that made the swordsmen stagger back shaking his head.

“Gaand chaat mera gujjar!” John shouted clubbing the swords men with the leg of the broken coffee table. John broke his attacker’s forearm with two quick bone cracking blows forcing him to drop the sword again then wrestled him into a chokehold. 

Panting slightly Sherlock pulled himself up off the table. He gingerly touched the thin line of blood on his throat as he walked around the couch. His new roommate was on the floor with his legs and arms wrapped around the weakly strangling man who tried to kill Sherlock moments before. 

“Sherlock why is this keffiyeh covered clown chasing you round the flat with a bloody sword?” John grunted.

Sherlock picked up the weapon and examined it. “It is a talwar actually. A scimitar designed for stabbing people from horseback...This one belongs in a museum.”

“You don’t know who the Beatles are but you can spot an antique sword at a glance?”

“See this calligraphy on the blade? A list of forefathers going back at least a millennium and this satin pattern in the blade? Damascus steel.”

“Sherlock why is this bloke trying to off you?!”

“He violently objects giving the Pillaiyar diamond back to its legal owners. If you recall I recommended shipping the thing back to its rightful owners in India. You insisted we respect the British museum’s right to horde stolen cultural artifacts. This situation is entirely your fault. Take responsibility.”

“Alright.” John agreed with a resigned sigh. He snapped the neck of the man he had in the head lock and pushed the corpse off his body. 

“Alright?” Sherlock asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’ll deal with it.” John hefted the fresh corpse up onto his shoulders in a fireman's hold and carried it into the bathroom. “Bloody hell...My whole morning is shot to shit…”

Sherlock watched without comment, still holding the sword, as John carried the body through the open bathroom door. There was a heavy thud in the bathroom as John dumped the body in the bath tub. 

“You have any citric acid in your chemistry kit?” John’s voice echoed out from the small tiled bathroom.

“Why do you need lemon juice?”

“You think I’m going to drain this twat in tub and not do something about the blood stains?”

“Why would you drain him of bodily fluids?” Sherlock asked curiously. Sherlock did not consider himself an expert on social customs, but even he knew that was not the usual protocol. Still. He was curious what John would answer. 

“I have to butcher this bastard don’t I? Not like you’ll bestir yourself to get the blood off the ceiling if I don’t drain him first. You can’t be bothered to make tea.”

“Shouldn’t you leave him whole?”

“I can’t very well march to the Thames with a whole body flung over my shoulder now can I? Fuck. Don’t just stand there, get the garbage bags.”

Sherlock considered reminding John that killing people, even in self defense inside one’s own home, required at least a cursory bit of police documentation. For propriety's sake. Then Sherlock remembered that he did not give a damn about propriety and Mycroft had his flat under constant video surveillance.

That would have to be good enough. 

“I want you to know I’ve got better things to do with my time besides cut up bodies on your behalf Sherlock Holmes. Don’t go making a habit of this nonsense. Bad enough you keep a chemistry set on the table and odd bits in the fridge -”

“Those are experiments.”

“Your experiments ought to be in a laboratory! A laboratory with proper fire suppression, a fume hood and biohazard containment! Not a domestic kitchen!” 

“Give up your bedroom for my private laboratory and I’ll leave vacate the kitchen otherwise -”

“Fine. Have at it. You build the laboratory to a university’s safety specs AND I get the right side of the bed. You got a deal.”

“What bed?”

“Your California king size bed. What? You thought I was going to sleep on the couch? Fat chance. I pay half the rent.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Civilian life and combat situations are dynamic. The people most likely to die or be grievously injured in disruptive situations are the ones who freeze up instead of reacting appropriately to the circumstances,” she had said in her calm professional tone.

“The military trained me to response appropriately to high stress situations. They did not train me to be a surgeon who can’t hold his dominant hand steady enough to cut a straight line!”

“I was not aware that surgery was the only branch of medicine practiced in the United Kingdom. My mother’s oncologist will be upset. He just bought a cottage in Hertfordshire.”

“It would take years to retrain in another field -”

“A year of residency. A year and a half at most. You are already a doctor John.”

“A _surgeon_.”

“Now go be a cardiologist, or a radiologist or an gynecologist or a neurologist or a endocrinologist or a -”

“Yes. Thank you. My career is -”

“Dynamic.”

“My career is dynamic. My life is worth living. I ought to get cracking eh?”

“In my professional assessment a new medical specialty and meaningful work would do more for you than ten years of talk sessions with me.”

“What does meaningful work _mean_? My military career is over.”

“That is not the only way to serve the public good John. I suggest working with a medical charity to keep active while you plan.”

“NGOs don’t pay for shite.”

“With you pension you can afford to do work charity while you explore you options.You are driven by a need to make a positive difference in the world. Serving indigent patients would be good for you.”

“Anything else?”

“I’d like to touch on just one more issue...You living arrangements."

"I lock up when I go out and don't leave the stove on. No need to worry over me."

"I am worried that you live alone.”

“That is the generally accepted practice of single adults in this country.”

“Your sister moved to Australia. Your parents are dead. All of your friends are deployed overseas. You spend most of your waking hours alone. That's not good John."

"Being alone does not make me lonely Dr. Banks."

"I suspect you own a gun.”

“Gun ownership is strictly regulated in England.”

“Yet many of my military clients have them. Souvenirs from their former life that can prove deadly. Are you aware career military personnel have alarming rates of suicide John?”

“I am familiar with the statistics. I am a military doctor.”

“Good. Then you'll take my recommendation to reconnect with civilian friends, get a hobby, find a flatshare and a casual romantic partner seriously.”

"That's a fucking ambitious checklist for a first session don't you think?"

"You seem like a capable man Captain John Watson. You have saved a lot of men and women by running into danger."

"That is - was my job. A doctor and a soldier...now -"

"Now you reconfigure your life. Why aren't you willing to endure some awkward social situations to save your own life when you were willing to run toward explosions and gunfire to save others?"

“Fine. I'll get a fucking hobby. I'll help down at the soup kitchen - but I don’t need a flatshare. I am not poor. Also I value my privacy.”

“Humans evolved to function independently in interconnected social groups. You lost your career and your society with your medical discharge. It's my job to help you find new ones.”

“I don’t think living with some weirdo from a Tesco bulletin board ad is going to do wonders for my emotional stability.”

“Would you rather try pills to treat your depression?”

“.....point taken....but a roommate?”

“If nothing else having a roommate will force you to talk to someone besides me on a regular basis.”

Dr. Evelyn Banks had not intended for John’s flatmate to be his romantic partner and reason for daily social interaction, but the neat efficiency of letting Sherlock Holmes completely fill all the gaping holes in his life appealed to John Watson.

Besides the lanky peacock needed looking after. He was like a brat toddler with a chemistry degree.


	6. Chapter 6

Shad Sanderson Investments was one of the many glass and steel temples to capitalism in London’s bustling financial district. Everyone but the janitors dressed like Sherlock in the financial district. It was John that turned heads. 

John Watson was a rottweiler to Sherlock’s greyhound. His shoulders were twice as wide as his trim waist. His black sweater and off the rack trousers could not hide the muscles bulging in his chest, arms and legs. He followed a step and a half behind Sherlock - his eyes sweeping the room for threats - like a bodyguard.

“This is my friend Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock told Sebastian Wilkes. 

There was no logical reason to define John’s place in Sherlock’s life for the benefit of Wee Wet Wilkes of all people, but something about the smarmy bastard brought the juvenile need to prove himself out in Sherlock. It was almost as provoking as Mycroft in a snit.

“We are more than friends Sherlock, we’re partners.” John shook Sebastian’s hand.

Sherlock and Sebastian both stared at John as if he sprouted antlers. He looked lovely as a Nazi propaganda poster with his sun bleached gold blonde hair, sea blue eyes, deep tan and toothpaste ad white teeth. Sherlock recovered his composure before Sebastian looked at him for confirmation. 

“Yes John is my...partner.” 

John’s grip made Sebastian wince and hastily pull back. John stood a half step closer to Sherlock. Military posture, hands behind his back, a friendly smile but his chin raised in challenge.

Sebastian gestured between the John and Sherlock. “So you to are...together?”

“It’s a bit new, I think you are the third person we’ve told,”John explained to Sebastian.

“Why? How? How did you two meet?” Sebastian asked suspiciously. 

“I was visiting a friend at St. Bart’s. He’s professor of anatomy and physiology. Mike was showing me the new anatomy lab and believe it or not, this cheeky bugger chatted me up right there in the morgue -”

“Oh I believe it -”

“- we went to dinner at this little Italian Bistro - what’s it called Sherlock?”

 

“Angelo’s.”

“That’s it!” John snapped his fingers. “Angelo’s. Great veal cutlet! Well. One thing lead to another - before the night was over Sherlock had nabbed that serial killer cab driver -” 

“I read about that in the papers -”

“- and we were moving in together.”

Sebastian blinked uncomprehendingly at John, who smiled benignly. “You...had a date...caught a serial killer...and moved in together? Just like that?”

“When you know. You know,” John bumped shoulders with Sherlock companionably. 

“And you were SURE Sherlock Holmes was the man for you after what? A day? Do you know about the skull?”

John stood even closer to Sherlock and said seriously: “I have traveled across three continents with the Royal Army. I have met people from almost every race, religion and nationality on Earth. I have never met anyone like Sherlock. I’m not letting him get away if I can help it.”

“You are...ex military Mr. Watson?”

“Dr. Watson. Ten years. Royal Army Medical corps. Did you serve?”

“No, no uhm, my grandfather and my father - not me,” Wilkes said uncomfortably.

“I thought you looked familiar! Your old man is Marmaduke Wilkes! YOU are the scaly brat Duke was always bitching about?” John laughed and slapped his thigh. “Just how many posh schools gave you the boot for snorting coke and sucking cock?”


	7. Chapter 7

Once upon a month ago Sherlock had winked at Dr. John Watson, invited him to co-habitat, investigate a serial killer and dinner. 

John had interpreted Sherlock’s behavior as courtship and accepted all three invitations without hesitation. During the meal, John point blank asked if Sherlock were a single homosexual interested in starting a relationship.

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to tell John he was married to his work when he was distracted by a two men dressed as EMTs snatching a toddler from its pram, drugging it and loading it into waiting ambulance.

Sherlock and John chased the kidnappers by foot using alley ways, roof tops, side streets, fenced in private gardens as a short cut. They caught up with the ambulance at a red light.

John broke the driver’s side window. Grabbed the driver by the hair, pulled him half way through the broken jagged safety glass and slammed his head against the door until he stopped moving.

Sherlock wrenched open the backdoor. Pretending he had a gun hidden in the pocket of his balstaff coat Sherlock ordered the second man step away from the child and to come out of the ambulance with his hands up.

On lookers called the police. John and Sherlock were arrested. The uninjured kidnapper got away in the confusion. 

Still hand cuffed, John escaped the police chased the kidnapper down, kicked him into submission and was re-arrested while Sherlock insulted everyone with in quarter mile radius.

DI Dimmock arrived in a black and white with lights flashing and the hysterical parents. The child was tearfully reunited with its rich parents: Baxter and Albert Hans- Crouse-Hinds. 

Sherlock and John were released from police custody with Dimmock's grudging apologies and the Hans-Crouse-Hinds' profuse gratitude.

On they way back to Baker Street in a cab, Sherlock realized who the serial killer was, how he had lured his victims and the unfinished conversation at Angelo's completely slipped his mind.

Observational evidence suggested Sherlock had unknowingly acquired a live in boyfriend who believed they were “taking it slow,” because he had not firmly denied sexual interest at that critical moment.

It was the realization the he was in the midst of a romantic relationship that allowed Sherlock to realized Edward van Coon was having an affair with his secretary.

Besotted people gave their romantic partners lavish gifts. Edward van Coon gave his girlfriend a jade hair comb that was worn by the empress of China, and it got him killed.

Sherlock had no difficulty getting the secretary to hand over the priceless hair ornament and a box of other antiquities without a fuss after he told her the Chinese government would kidnap and imprison her in a Chinese prison never to be heard from again, .

A trip to van Coon’s high rise turned up van Coon’s corpse and more yellow graffiti spray painted on the walls like the vandalism in van Coon’s office which made the case so obvious, so boring Sherlock was tempted not to solve it, but John insisted. Sebastian Wilkes' check was going toward their remodel.

Rather than waste more time on a “3”, Sherlock took out a full page color ad in the Sunday Times to hurry things along.

The late Edward van Coon’s private collection of Chinese and Japanese antiquities were to be sold by auction at the Hans-Crouse-Hinds gallery following a preview cocktail hour.

The mysterious notoriety surrounding Edward van Coon’s locked room murder and the prestigious Hans-Crouse-Hinds Gallery name made society take notice of Sherlock’s advertisement and show up in droves.

Unfortunately society included Mycroft, his PA and the Chinese ambassador to the United Kingdom and their agents.

“Allow me to introduce Ambassador Zhang Zhao Yi, of the People's Republic of China. Ambassador Zhang this is my brother Sherlock Holmes and his…companion...Dr. John Watson.”

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson I wish we meeting for a more pleasant occasion -”

“This is a splendid occasion! There will be a murder any minute now, and I might get that bronze dragon for the flat - we are having it completely redone."

"You're what?" Mycroft asked disbelieving. 

"John and I purchased 221A, B and C Baker Street this afternoon," Sherlock said smugly. "Now that we own the whole block, we will gut it to the studs and expand side-wise."

"We will share the top floor with Mrs. Hudson and let the ground and basement flats out for income," John explained. "We are putting in an elevator, a roof top pool with cabana, a chef's kitchen, two baths, a laboratory -”

Ambassador Zhang looked at Sherlock incredulously. “You putting lab in your house? Why would you do that?”

“Sherlock is a forensic scientist, and a consulting detective,” John said with pride. “With his own lab he can work from home.”

“I see…” said Ambassador Zhang looking between Sherlock and John trying to decide whether or not they were making fun of him. “Mr. Holmes please explain our position to your brother.”

“Sherlock, the People’s Republic of China has gone to court and obtained an injunction against any of these cultural treasures being sold before their Ministry of Culture has the opportunity to verify they were legally obtained,” Mycroft said.

“Let me save you the trouble of further legal proceedings. Everything on display was stolen replaced with replicas and smuggled out of mainland China by an acrobatic ring of thieves. Mr. van Coon was their fence. They murdered him for skimming off their profits and stealing an Ming Dynasty hair barrette.”

“If you knew these facts, why this auction Mr. Holmes?” Ambassador Zhang asked angrily. 

“Why are you pretending to be an ambassador when your are no more an ambassador than Angelica is a PA?” Sherlock countered shrewdly.

“My name this week is Marion.”

“I beg your pardon Marion.”

“These objects should have been turned over to my country with no delay!”

“If I had done that, Scotland Yard would not have had the opportunity to catch van Coon’s murderer and Interpol could not try to catch the thieves passing themselves off as buyers. They won't of course, but it will be entertaining to watch none the less.”

“Anyone we know?” Mycroft asked Marion.

“Francois Toulour is at six o’clock. Napoleon Solo coming out of the gent’s at three. Mrs. Carmen Diego-Toulour at midnight,” Marion answered.

“Why would they all come?” Zhang asked. “They must know it is a trap here.”

“They are all arrogant enough to like the challenge,” Mycroft said.

“Diego is Toulour’s estranged wife and Solo’s ex lover. Perhaps they are working together,” Marion suggested.

“How many times have they swapped paintings between the MOMA, the Louvre, the National Gallery and the Hermitage without being caught?” Sherlock asked.

“So often that the curators do not remember who owns what painting without consulting their insurance policies.” Mycroft looked around. “Where did Dr. Watson slip away to?”

“To over-watch from the rafters with his big bore rifle and night vision goggles. Odds are good someone will cut power to the light to steal the more portable treasures or try to kill me soon.”

“This happens to you a lot Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” Zhang asked. “Attempted murder?”

“More than I would like," Sherlock admitted with a shrug in his voice. "The wear and tear on my wardrobe is outrageous, but John likes to assault people on my behalf, and who am I to deprive my boyfriend of his hobbies?”


End file.
